O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1921 eBook

“Keep goin’! This is the tough one—­we’ve
got to go on—­we’ve got to go on!”

And on they went. The streaking rays of dawn
played for a moment upon an untroubled mound of white,
smooth and deep upon the eastern end of Sni-a-bend.
Then, as though from some great internal upheaval,
the mass began to tremble. Great heaps of snow
broke from their place and tumbled down the embankment.
From farther at the rear, steam, augmented by the
vapours of melting snow and the far-blown gushes of
spitting smoke, hissed upward toward the heights of
the white-clad hill. Then a bulging break—­the
roar of machinery, and a monster came grinding forth,
forcing its way hungrily onward, toward the next and
smaller contest. Within the giant auger a man
turned to Garrity.

“Guess it’s over, Boss. They said
up at Glen Echo—­”

A silent nod. Then Garrity turned, and reaching
into the telegram-blank holder at the side of the
cab, brought forth paper and an envelope. Long
he wrote as the rotary clattered along, devouring
the smaller drifts in steady succession, a letter of
the soul, a letter which told of an effort that had
failed, of a decision that could not hold. And
it told, too, of the return of all that Martin had
worked for—­Mr. Barstow had been good to
him, and he, Martin Garrity, could not take his money
and disobey him. He’d pay him back.

Whistles sounded, shrieking in answer to the tooting
of others from far away, the wild eerie ones of yard
engines, the deeper, throatier tones of factories.
It was the end. Montgomery City!

Slowly Martin addressed the envelope, and as the big
bore came to a stop, evaded the thronging crowds and
sought the railroad mail box. He raised the letter....

“Mr. Garrity!” He turned. The day
agent was running toward him. “Mr. Garrity,
Mr. Barstow wants to see you. He’s here—­in
the station. He came to see the finish.”

So the execution must be a personal one! The
letter was crunched into a pocket. Dimly, soddenly,
Martin followed the agent. As through a haze
he saw the figure of Barstow, and felt that person
tug at his sleeve.

“Come over here, where we can talk in private!”
There was a queer ring in the voice and Martin obeyed.
Then—­“Shake, Old Kid!”

Martin knew that a hand was clasping his. But
why?

“You made it! I knew you would. Didn’t
I tell you we’d get our pound of flesh?”

“But—­but the contract——­”

“To thunder with the contract!” came the
happy answer of Barstow. “If you had only
answered the ’phone, you wouldn’t be so
much in the dark. What do I care about mail contracts
now—­with the best two lines in Missouri
under my supervision? Don’t you understand?
This was the hole that I had prayed for this O.R.
& T. bunch to get into from the first minute I saw
that snow. They would have been tied up for a
week longer—­if it hadn’t been for
us. Can’t you see? It was the argument